Voiceless
by smilingcrescent
Summary: Even a well-trained young man might have less than polite things to think when he's in pain and thirsty. 1st person present, "seeds" arc.
1. Table of Contents

**Table of Contents**

**hello!** This is a collection of drables…exploring the theme, "Voiceless," or, what the D. Gray - Man characters cannot say aloud.

I originally intended it to be a stand-alone sort of thing, but randomly decided to explore other characters. The subsequent "chapters" will be updated from here. If you like the idea, feel free to request another character.)

Below, you can find the original summaries for each section. You can read them together (they're all pretty short: less than 1,000 words. Did this to make it a concise character study), or read your favorite characters. Enjoy.

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1. Voiceless

**Summary: **Even a well-trained young man might have less than polite things to think when he's in pain and thirsty.

**Notes:** (Character driven study- first person present). Set in the very beginning of "seed of destruction" arc.

2. awaiting the end: Lavi

Sometimes Lavi drowns in sadness. Away from the others, and caught up in an unfortunate situation, he looks for akuma in all the wrong places. (Character study. Third person present.) Set in the "Searching for Allen Walker" arc.


	2. Voiceless

**Title:** Voiceless  
**Rating:** PG-13 for the mood...  
**Warnings:** depression and slight madness (or what you call it before insanity)  
**Characters:** Allen (can be freely interpreted) and the interrogator... no pairings mentioned.  
Interpret freely; there is no right answer.  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything. no profit made and no harm done.  
**Length:**flash fiction. 800 words. (I recommend you read aloud...)

**Background:**(from the very beginning of "seed of destruction" arc) Even a well trained young man might have less than polite things to think when he's in pain and thirsty. Character driven study- first person present.

Author's Note: I fell asleep...then woke up with this knocking around my head...and I do write happy stuff occasionally. Just not today...it's raining...

* * *

Voiceless.

I can taste the words behind my tongue. They swim, trying to get out. Nasty, horrible things that would mar my host's elegance. Might stain white gloves and bar me from opening my mouth again.

I smile, and let only politeness exit my spread lips. "Yes, it is, isn't it?" The whole of the conversation jumbled down and swallowed by those tiny words.

I put the teacup down on the saucer, but it slides from any kind of perfect position. Tilted diagonal by the gentle incline of the plate that I so carelessly ignored, unable to find the center while I was trying to remember. To imagine the world from before.

More words teeter on my teeth, like clumsy birds all vying for position or waiting for crumbs. Trying to get out. I swallow and keep them down, starving them.

"It's time for you to answer a few questions." The man is the model of concern, my dear host. A crease on the brow and full lips turned down. "Could you do this for us?" His hands, though, are a blur of motion before me. He puts the teacup back correctly, yes, and then pours a stream of hot, gloriously _warm_liquid out and into the thin china, though I've barely touched it. Such consideration.

I offer a thin smile. It's the best I can do, even in light of the care he's putting on for show.

I can feel the truth again, and it pecks at my lips from the inside. I cover my mouth with a gloved hand, and cough lightly. Maybe it will be enough to keep still.

I then put both hands around the china cup, as though to warm them. "I'm not sure there's anything to be said," I offer quietly. Nothing they would like, anyways. Nothing at all polite.

The man's eyes are kind. "Yes," he sighs. He leans back in the elegantly shaped chair—a thing meant for tea parties and sunlight rendezvous, I think. The wrought iron was painted over in white, pristine and complementary to the glass table and transparent teapot. All quite clean. All in full view. Nothing to doubt or misunderstand at all. Quite a nice touch, that. "We were afraid you might think so."

I nod. Keep my chin inclined so my hair covers my face just so. I take slow, even breaths. I'm only just keeping myself from leaning over the hot cup and breathing the vapor the way I might have when I was a child.

But he doesn't let the silence stand. He gently stirs the tea leaves in the pot by rocking it in a small circle. The centripetal force keeps the water sloshing in a curve, hitting the glass walls only occasionally in tiny tidal waves that might only hurt a butterfly. I realize he's speaking, and catch only the last of the words. "—thing at all, my dear boy," and his voice is soothing.

At his urging, the words stick in my dry mouth. My tongue feels heavy, my eyes like shrunken, itching balls. I blink rapidly, badly wanting to drop all pretense of manners and just _drink_.

And then speak, letting fly a thousand paper cranes turned into mourning sparrows, telling truths that ought to be lies, and making the whole world try and forget what ought never have been. Really. The best defense is silence. But courtesy ought to be met with something.

"Really," I insist. The one word bites. The truth etches itself into my tongue on white wings, and it has golden eyes.

He settles back into the sculpted chair. Looks at me sorrily, and nods at another pitcher. His hands have left the tea with its disguised hidden flavor, and he only gestures at the water. "Honestly, Allen. You haven't anything to worry about. Just tell us what you know, and we'll do everything we can to help you. To help the cause." His hands, open and yet full of energy, motion again to the pitcher.

It's not biting anymore. It gnaws. And its appetite is more vicious than mine ever was.

"The truth, Allen." His kind eyes are wide, and the forgiving jaw is stern.

Truth.

It couldn't be more confusing, more treacherous if it had come from my worst enemy's mouth.

I look down. Lift the cup, and long to wet my tongue.

The interrogator looks up. Smiles at me. I wish the man would go away.

"Please," I say, scraping my lips together. "Just leave."

And in a whisper of clothes fluttering, a sigh of disappointment, he stands. I think I hear a flutter of wings. I look up to see him pass out of my cell.

But there's nothing there. Nothing at all.

I close my eyes and wish.

That's all there is left.

All that there is.

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(fin)

Thoughts?


	3. awaiting the end Lavi

**Title:** **awaiting the end**  
**Rating:** PG-13 for the mood...  
**Warnings:** depression and slight madness (or what you call it before insanity)  
**Characters:** Lavi and a girl he met. No pairings mentioned.  
Please interpret freely; there is no right answer.  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything. no profit made and no harm done.  
**Length:** flash fiction. 639 words. (I recommend you read aloud...)

**Summary: **Sometimes Lavi drowns in sadness. Away from the others, and caught up in an unfortunate situation, he looks for akuma in all the wrong places.

Other: (Character study. Third person present.) Set in the "Searching for Allen Walekr" arc.

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**awaiting the end. **by smilingcrescent

Sometimes Lavi drowns in sadness.

After he's bent his mind around recording small details, changed his expression, his voice, and his manner to suit the call, he waits for someone to notice. He waits anxiously; he waits ambivalently.

If they notice, maybe he can find himself amidst reflections in their minds. If they do not, he is safe behind the facade, and he has won the game.

But so far, not a one of them has noticed.

It feels like a small victory.

He smiles fiercely at the girl he's been sent to intimidate, and she steps back. She doesn't know him any longer.

"What happened?" he demands, cold fury bristling on his tone.

She shirks like a dog from flame. "I-I-"

It's always like this when the Bookman fumbles a job. When the old man picked the _wrong _place to be for a big event. Granted, Lavi doesn't usually wind up threatening his friends, telling them to _spill_ or else, but this in particular was an unusual case. Everyone is getting tense, awaiting the end.

"I know you were there." he says with a noticeable twitch of his hand. It rest near his hammer, and the girl could only think what he might do with it. Doubtless, exorcising demonic akuma didn't even make the list.

"There were men...who came from nowhere." She shrieks. "I-I don't know-"

He cocks his head. Waits.

"And they took him. Took LaCheal, and his face...exploded and-"

Lavi smoothes his expression effortlessly. Allows his almost anger to leave, and raises his chin. "What did they do after the attack? And how did you escape?" The possibility of her being a decoy, or an enemy in disguise flits through his mind. Though her confusion, grief and panic seem real, this doesn't make it any less likely. Be she an unwilling piece in the earl's game or a talented actress, either would make sense.

"They destroyed the church." She wails. "There were so many people. My brother-" the note of hysteria rises, and she breaks off into gasping sobs.

So it was in the church, not the well. Their sources originally documented told of a well that would grant long-life and cure most illnesses, not anything about the local church.

At the first, when they got here, he'd guessed at first the excursion hadn't been an exorcist related business at all. It'd be an uprising, perhaps a change in powers. But no. Ever since the war of innocence started in earnest, that's all the Bookman and he ever did...

Lavi shakes his head. "_How?_" he repeats, and now he's twirling the hammer lightly, eyeing her with his eye in the most serious of fashions.

Predictably, she steps back. "I...I..." she stammers. "I hid. I really did...they...they must have left quick."

Lavi nods tersely, and manages to growl. "Don't think this is over." He lifts his hammer, readying it for a swing.

She stands stock still, unable to move for fright.

He levels a wide, half circle of an arc at her-

-that swishes through, unable to touch her human flesh.

She sees it as stopping miraculously, millimeters in front of her face. Her eyes snap shut, and she whimpers pathetically.

Lavi smiles tightly. He takes two steps back..and turns away. Not able to look at her, he says to the otherwise empty street, "I'm sorry."

He hears her collapse to her knees, then to a crouched, groveling position. She might have called his name.

But he's running- tearing after the akuma with earnest, hoping they might have left a trail. That the innocence (if there was any), might still be in existence.

And he wishes...that the girl could reconcile his two faces...

That he could.

Instead, he hides his disappointment with a terror of determination.

He can only run.

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Thoughts?

I didn't think I'd continue this. ^^ but here is another installment...thoughts? Requests?


End file.
